Trash
by PimpedOutGreenEars
Summary: You're trash. Trash that seems to belong to him. You probably deserve it. Oneshot. DallyxTim.


**Trash**

**Authors Note: Just a little peice I came up with to practice more second person. Let me know what you think!**

* * *

You feel like the worst person in the world as you walk toward his house.

You know better than to go there. You know what happens every time you go there.

You always end up going there.

You aren't much of a person, just an empty shell, really. You're dried up and used, and any happiness you once had left you long ago.

Now you just hate yourself. You hate yourself for everything you are and everything you've done. You're a worthless person. You're a stitch in society's side.

You used to think society tried to punish you. You used to smile when it happened because there was nothing society could do to you. Everything that could happen to you had happened, and society couldn't take anything away from you because you had nothing to take.

You were wrong. You had so much to lose.

It's only now that you have nothing. It's only now that every good thing you had is gone. It's only recently that you traded in your pride.

Society doesn't need to punish you anymore. You punish yourself.

You do a better job than society ever did.

The wind picks up as you reach the old white house. It's not really white anymore; it turned that dirty yellow long ago. It's dirty just like you. You know better than to be here, but you can't say you don't deserve it. You can't say you don't deserve to be part of the dirty white house.

You walk onto the porch, taking the three steps quickly because all you want to do is turn and run away. You don't have to come here.

You always do.

You stand facing the door for a long while. You don't want to knock. You don't want to see him. You don't want to crawl back to him.

You should run.

You don't move an inch.

It's a few minutes later when you knock on the door. The sound of your hand hitting the old wood of the door makes you sick to your stomach. You feel like you just dug your own grave.

You almost turn around before she opens the door and smiles at you.

She's his sister. She likes you well enough. She doesn't know yet that she shouldn't.

She looks like him, from her dark hair, to her cat like eyes, but her smile is different. He only smiles to torment you.

She tells you that he's upstairs, that she was just leaving. She smiles before she leaves.

Her smile is fake.

She likes you. She doesn't like that you don't like her.

You don't like anyone though.

You walk into the house. It's a mess.

Everything looks how it always does. There's trash where it doesn't belong, empty beer cans and bottles litter the floor, and the empty Kools packages are everywhere.

It's a dirty house. You deserve everything you get from the man who runs it.

You walk slowly up the stairs to the second floor. You know he's up there, and you know he can hear you. You know he's waiting for you.

You know there are twelve steps, and at every step you try to convince yourself to turn around.

You get to step seven before you stop. You always stop on the seventh step. Seven steps are all it takes you to feel like a piece of trash.

You grip the rickety railing in your hand until your knuckles turn white.

You hate yourself for this more than anything. This is where you come to lose your pride. This is the place where whatever you have left inside you comes to die.

You hate yourself for not turning around. You hate yourself for being on the seventh step to begin with. You hate yourself for becoming dependent on this. You hate yourself for needing him.

You've been standing on the seventh step for a long time, so you decide to keep climbing, the sound of creaking steps beneath you. You hope you fall through.

You don't stop until you reach his door. It's closed like it always is.

You have to knock to see him. You have to ask him for entrance. You have to ask him to ruin you further.

You already feel tears building up in your eyes.

You stare at the brown door in front of you for only a few seconds before you knock.

"Come in." You hear his gruff voice call.

You could turn around. You don't have to do this. You could go somewhere else.

You don't have anywhere else.

You open the door.

He's sitting on his bed, his shirt off, looking at you like he knew you'd be back.

"What do you want?" He asks. He knows what's going to happen, but he makes you ask for it. He wants to strip away your pride.

"Please." You beg in a whimper.

He smirks, and you feel yourself die inside. You used to be better than this. Or maybe you just had yourself fooled into thinking you were.

He pats the spot beside him on the bed, and like a dog, you walk over and lay in it. You curl into him just like you're supposed to and hold onto him.

He laughs. "I knew you'd come back."

And then you can't take it anymore and you begin to sob. You can still hear the quiet laughter.

Of all the things you'll do tonight, crying in front of him is the worst.


End file.
